


Where You Lead

by sinclairsolutions



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27671186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinclairsolutions/pseuds/sinclairsolutions
Summary: Kurt always said there was no shame in running from an unwinnable fight. But why would either of them run any longer, when they want so desperately to lose?
Relationships: Kurt/De Sardet (GreedFall)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27
Collections: Quiet Life Bingo Fills





	Where You Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the challenge I wrote this for ended a full month ago. No, I'm not done cleaning up fills and posting them. Sorry!

“Kurt?” The battlefield is hardly the place for witty banter, but then, De Sardet reasons, this isn’t exactly a battlefield. That isn’t to say it’s much safer, though; given the bandit currently brandishing her sword in his direction, half-hidden by the shadows of the nearby alley, he’s hard-pressed to say he wouldn’t prefer the open field. At least the tenlans don’t have guns. “Remind me again what we pay the Coin Guard for, exactly?”

“For pissing up trees and pretending to give a shit about their patrols, if memory serves.” Kurt grunts as he strikes another bandit with a wide swing of his greatsword, and the man goes down with a wet gurgle. Dead, or soon to be; either way, De Sardet doesn’t feel any particular sympathy for him. “Apparently clearing out the bandits wasn’t on the list of orders.”

“How kind of them to leave us all the fun.” De Sardet says it with confidence he lacks, for there are far too many of them, and the fine embroidery on his coat will offer him little protection once they start drawing the pistols hanging from their sides. He has nothing to shield him but the greaves belted onto his boots, the rest of his armor deemed unnecessary for a simple walk to the tavern. How foolish he feels for that oversight now—and how glad he is that keeping his weapon close is as easy as sliding on a ring.

Kurt always said there was no shame in running from an unwinnable fight, and with ever more bandits summoned by the noise of the battle, De Sardet has to admit this is rapidly becoming one of those. He shoves one to the ground with a blast of magic, then takes off running, and thank the Enlightened, Kurt follows. Without his heavy cuirass, there’s no incessant clanking of metal to keep the two of them from slipping away; they sprint along the main road for perhaps fifty yards, the bandits in haphazard pursuit, before Kurt grabs De Sardet by the wrist and yanks him into the alley behind the tavern. He flattens himself against the wall, flattens De Sardet’s body to him so they both disappear into the shadows, and clamps his hand over De Sardet’s mouth before he can let out the startled yelp already halfway formed on his tongue.

“Quiet,” Kurt hisses.

De Sardet is glad for that hand, or else he might just moan.

They remain there, precarious, with De Sardet on tiptoe, his weight held up atop Kurt’s hips. He dares not move, lest their greaves clang together and give them away, lest he sink lower into the hard muscle of Kurt’s thighs and give  _ himself _ away. His legs tremble with the effort, his breath staccato. He prays Kurt does not notice.

A minute passes. Another. They breathe together, and De Sardet swears their heartbeats fall into sync as they cling to each other for support. There’s no sound but the muted revelry coming from inside the tavern, the angry footsteps of their pursuers long gone. Kurt heaves a great sigh into the junction between De Sardet’s neck and shoulder as he releases his mouth, and gooseflesh rises from De Sardet’s skin where the heat of his breath fades. “I think they’ve moved on.”

“Is that so?” De Sardet doesn’t realize how much like a challenge it sounds until it’s too late, until Kurt is pulling back with open-mouthed shock to study the flush of arousal across his face, the pupils blown so wide his eyes look nearly black. Something shifts in the air between them. They both feel it, and yet they still resist—they’ve been resisting for so long that in a way, it feels like the natural thing to do. But De Sardet’s body betrays him, and when his hips fall to press hard against Kurt’s, he feels Kurt’s nails tighten on the back of his neck and knows the battle is over.

“Yes,” he whispers, in answer to the question Kurt lacks the words to ask, and then their lips are crashing together, Kurt’s hand tight and possessive in his hair and his nose smushed into De Sardet’s at a spectacularly awkward angle. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting as close as possible, wrapping his legs around Kurt’s waist and grinding down until there is nothing but the exquisite friction of their cocks rubbing together through the fabric of their trousers. It is desperate, and furious, and yet it isn’t  _ enough _ ; De Sardet groans and releases Kurt’s shoulder, shoving his hand between them to yank open the laces on their trousers.

“We shouldn’t,” Kurt grunts against De Sardet’s neck, but when De Sardet stills his hands he adds, “Doesn’t mean I want you to stop,” and De Sardet laughs, by now utterly unconcerned with the bandits—or anyone else, for that matter. Let some drunken idiot find them here. Let them know what Kurt does to him, how foolish Kurt makes him that he’s willing to get their cocks out in the middle of the street. And by the Enlightened, he is willing. He spreads his legs as wide as Kurt’s grip will let them go as he exposes them both to the cool air, and Kurt shudders against him and bites down hard on his neck. Tomorrow, there will be a bruise, and De Sardet will press his fingers to it and grow hard from the memory alone. But first there is tonight, and it holds De Sardet in rapt attention.

He takes both their cocks in his hand—or as much as he can, because by the  _ Enlightened _ , Kurt is thick—and strokes, and the rhythm doesn’t quite match what Kurt sets with his hips, but that only makes it better. The differences between them are starker like this: his soft hand around their cocks and Kurt’s calloused one on his ass, Kurt’s stubble scraping his smooth jaw, the sheer  _ strength  _ that he knows he lacks and which Kurt uses to effortlessly hold him up. He loves that about Kurt, loves  _ everything  _ about him. But a filthy alley is no place to say so, so he settles for a broken “Oh,  _ Kurt, fuck, _ ” as his orgasm hits. He sags against Kurt as he spills over Kurt’s brigandine, and when the lamplight catches his spend on the leather, Kurt comes seemingly from the sheer obscenity of it. He clutches De Sardet so tightly that were he any other man, De Sardet might fear being broken in half, and then he lets go, and they part, De Sardet settling back onto the ground with shaky legs.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Kurt says, his voice rough with lingering bliss, and De Sardet can only concur. He takes Kurt’s face in his hands and kisses him, long and deep, until the euphoria has faded enough for them to notice that they’re still unclothed in full view of anyone who might walk by. Kurt tucks himself back into his trousers, businesslike, then says, “Come,” and De Sardet nods, covering himself with his coat and stumbling over the cobbles after him. He hasn’t the presence of mind yet to reply, ‘I think I already have’; later, when his brain has come back to him, he’ll wish he’d thought of it, if only to see Kurt’s face flush in the glow of the lamps. For now, though, it is enough to see his soft, uncertain smile as he says, “Our young governor’ll have my head if I don’t get you home safe,” and to follow him wherever he leads.


End file.
